


Running Back to You

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Minor Violence, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 10:31:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3646992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Aramis dies, Porthos isn't sure what else there is for him to do - and dedicates his life to protecting the family he was never able to have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running Back to You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [songdances](https://archiveofourown.org/users/songdances/gifts).



> Written originally with the prompt idea of "a relationship you would have liked to see more of" and I basically just want all the Anne and Porthos interaction, plus baby dauphin. Plus I just dislike the idea that Porthos would resent her (and by proxy, Aramis). So then there's this. 
> 
> And then it just kind of spiraled from there into a what if scenario of "yeah, but what IF Aramis had died in the finale?" and then I just accepted my fate as trash and gave into the pain and then this just went out of control and ta da here it is.
> 
> Also, any inaccuracies to true historical fact was unintentional but then... this show kind of mucked up the timeline anyway, so just roll with it.

The tombstone is unmarked, unspecified. A traitor’s grave. Porthos hoped, at least, that Aramis would be able to rest beside his brothers – but it isn’t so. At least, not until the queen’s clemency and the truth of Rochefort is unveiled, and he is granted a wooden cross, his coffin unearthed to be buried beneath his fallen brothers of Savoy. Still, even that feels too plain. Even that feels ill-suited for someone like Aramis. 

He remembers finding him – a body, broken and mangled, a body that couldn’t be Aramis. This wasn’t the way that Aramis was meant to go. And Porthos carries the body carefully, mindful, the limbs loose and disjointed, torn beyond repair. He carries that body, what was once Aramis now broken beyond repair upon the wheel. That, more than anything, makes Porthos see red – but he quashes down that anger, that destruction. There’s no one else left to be angry with, no one he could exact revenge on – only the bitter taste of a ghost on his tongue. Aramis is no longer here to tamper his fury, and he will not do a disservice to his friend by losing his life so soon after his, when he knows how desperately Aramis always fought so Porthos might live. The scars tenderly woven across his skin is testament to that, a brand he hopes will never fade. 

It is several days after, with talk of war against Spain for Rochefort’s interference, when the queen addresses them and thanks them for their work in protecting her. The space beside him is hollow and empty, far too empty, and he can’t speak for the heavy weight of disbelief that still drags him down. It has yet to settle, and while the queen smiles, her eyes seem to linger, too. 

Still, she nods her head to Porthos, who bows to her respectfully. She smiles at both d’Artagnan and Athos, who must feel the hollow ache just as keenly. Her eyes linger a moment more. She turns away, takes her son back into her arms from Constance’s patient hold – and rejoins her husband. Porthos watches her go, watches the way the dauphin’s hands curl at nothing underneath the blankets. 

And it’s then that he knows that he’ll give his life protecting the dauphin. Aramis’ son. 

Later that night, they retire to Athos’ new captains’ quarters. Athos pours the wine and they sit in a steady and wallowing silence – the three of them, strangely empty and lacking. They drink in silence until d’Artagnan looks up, face oddly grim, and he grips his mug tight and lifts it up.

“For Aramis,” he says, and looks at both Porthos and Athos. 

Athos looks down into his wine and nods once and Porthos grips his cup tighter as the three of them knock their drinks together. 

“For Aramis,” Porthos agrees alongside Athos’ quiet murmur of the same. 

 

-

 

He thinks this is the least he can do for Aramis – to guard the dauphin. Not that he wouldn’t defend the royal family with his life – it is his job as a musketeer and one he has never shied away from. Now, though, there is a deeper reason for him – something that drags him down, wraps tight around his heart and refuses to budge. Perhaps it is selfish, to view the son Aramis could never have as Porthos’ own final claim to Aramis’ memory. Perhaps it is selfish – but in the quiet corners of his mind, there is no fear of him referring to the dauphin as Aramis’ son. To speak it out loud would be cruelty and stupidity. But at least to himself he can admit the truth. He knows that Athos and d’Artagnan must sense it, too, must understand it – because when Porthos volunteers more and more for guard posts in the court, they do not question it. Athos looks at him, sad and worried – and d’Artagnan looks at him with a undisguised pride and admiration. 

No one can accuse him of being the dauphin’s father, after all, although he has to be careful – his connection to Aramis is well-known enough that he can’t be suspicious about it. 

Still, it is not a matter of caring for him in Aramis’ place – for that place can never be filled. But he likes to think, says to himself, that Aramis would understand if Porthos were to tell him that it was all he had left: to protect the family Aramis couldn’t have. Athos drowns himself in drink and his work as Captain. And d’Artagnan muffles his own sadness, that vacant hole one brother left behind, by focusing on Constance, who in turn must comfort the queen. Porthos has his family – missing one important piece. 

And he wants to believe that Aramis would appreciate that Porthos would do such a thing. In the wake of all that’s happened, the queen logically keeps her distance from the regiment. Understandably, in a time of war, and in a time of mourning she cannot admit to. The royal family remains in the court, and the musketeers ride out to war against Spain. 

 

-

 

The days are heavy and unrelenting, and most mornings Porthos thinks he’ll choke around his own mourning, his own grief. It’s a phantom pain that can’t cleave from him. 

He stops trying after the first month to ignore that dull pain of loss. He dives into the straight-forward violence of war – fights the battles, wears a blue sash at his hip – a collar of ownership he’d never scoff at. 

The little things will remind him of Aramis. The moment he gets a bad wound on his arm and he has to stitch it up himself, struggling with the thread and struggling to make it even – jagged and ugly when laid out beside the clean and precise needlework Aramis was once known for. Hearing a bird whistling and thinking that in three days time the sound would only rattle Aramis. Seeing a beautiful woman on the roadside as they ride back home to Paris, her apron upturned to hold some stray apples she’s collected, and thinking that Aramis would smile at her, beaming and bright, and bow his head reverently to her as they pass. 

The war is long and brutal, but peace is eventually reached – but the crimes that Rochefort left scar the court still. There can hardly be happiness. He feels untethered – like someone lost out at sea and waiting for the light to guide him back home again. 

Athos and d’Artagnan, Constance – they are a blessing. But while their friendship and their camaraderie, the same pain they feel having lost Aramis, is hardly a godsend or a comfort. They all miss him, but Porthos feels as if he cannot breathe, as if he cannot go on. He tells himself he must, but it does little to motivate him. 

Sometimes he wonders if it would have been better, had he died instead. Somehow, in some way. Aramis, who was always a survivor, who always got out unscathed despite all the hardships and dangers of his life – that he should have been torn apart feels unjust. Aramis, who lost so much and lost even more in the end. Aramis, who had someone worth living for. 

He can imagine Aramis’ protests, though, should Porthos have ever said such a thing. He won’t die so easily. Not when he has something to do – and the dauphin and the queen, at least, give him something to focus on: protect Aramis’ family. And he knows that would include himself, knows that Aramis would only ever weep if Porthos threw away his life like it’s nothing. 

Aramis lost so much, so the least Porthos can do is live a long and full life. Even if it will always, irrevocably, be empty without Aramis in it. 

 

-

 

When Constance becomes pregnant with d’Artagnan’s first child, so soon after their marriage, it is at once a joy and a curb from the heavy sadness hanging around them, but also a reminder of those they have lost. Porthos is glad to see some of the sadness fade from d’Artagnan’s eyes as he smiles gently at Constance, touches her hair and kisses her, her hand pressing to his cheek like he was the most precious person in the world. And to her, he is. But Porthos can’t help but think of how overjoyed Aramis would be for d’Artagnan, and the concept of children amongst them is strange to think about. With a pang, Porthos remembers that Aramis will only ever have the one child, and will never see that child grow. 

Still, his joy for Constance and d’Artagnan is genuine, and he pulls d’Artagnan into a large two-armed hug – and a much gentler one for Constance’s sake, smiling into her hair and letting himself be unconditionally happy for them. 

They don’t deserve to be in mourning forever. But Porthos remembers Aramis every day. 

 

-

 

The dauphin reaches his birthday, turns one year old, and the court is in extravagant celebration – the child hardly ever leaving his father’s arms, eyes wide and inquisitive but still rather uncomprehending considering his age. 

Porthos feels the intruder, attending such celebrations – even as merely a guard amongst other Musketeers – and he can barely breathe, wishes he could dismiss himself from it and find solace elsewhere. He meets Treville’s eyes from across the room, the Minister of War calm and collected, hands folded in front of him. Porthos has to look away. 

The queen eventually parts from her husband’s side in order to speak with Treville, and then makes her way to Athos. Athos and Porthos, by his side, bow to her and she smiles, always the picture of elegance and restraint. She still seems sad, but perhaps that’s Porthos wishing it were so, wishing to find evidence that he is not the only one who _misses_. 

“Congratulations on your son’s birthday, Your Majesty,” Athos says, polite and distant. He fits the captainship well, organized and precise, and Porthos likes to think he helps temper him in his more lucid moments – the moments when his mind is far away, to wherever it is his wife has departed. 

The queen smiles more and it seems a touch genuine despite the formality. “It’s truly a grand day.” 

“He seems happy,” Porthos says, suddenly, before he can think better of it, and when the queen looks at him he has to look away, bowing his head forward and adding, “Your Majesty.”

“Yes,” she agrees, and she sounds wistful as she looks over at the dauphin grasping at the king’s laced collar. “He does.” 

Porthos dares to glance at her, and her smile seems only for him – distant, perhaps, and melancholy, but understanding. He feels more at ease, and nods his head a little as he straightens from his bow. 

“I hope that he will be as happy for all his birthdays,” she admits, and there’s a touch of vulnerability to her voice that he does not believe she’d say otherwise. Constance shifts a little from where she stands slightly behind the queen, and Porthos glances at her and then back to the queen. 

“He will be,” Porthos says, fiercely, before he can curb the words. She looks at him and he adds, “He’ll have many birthdays, Your Majesty, and many years to come.” 

She looks at him, and something in her gaze shifts – becomes more open, more gentled. She suddenly looks much younger, much kinder, and Porthos clenches his jaw and refuses to add more words – more sentimental, dangerous words. 

“As always, the Musketeers’ loyalty does them credit,” she says, but it does not sound like formality. 

She cannot linger for long, even still does not danger linger amongst Aramis’ old friends – not when the king is looking over at her and wondering why she is so far away. When she leaves, Athos turns towards him.

“Porthos,” he says and it is not quite a warning.

“ _Captain_ ,” he says, and it most certainly is a warning. 

Athos sighs and watches the queen return to the king’s outstretched hand, her free hand reaching to touch at her son’s brow, who squirms and twists around, eager for more excitement. Porthos is quiet and eventually Athos sighs again, touches the back of his shoulder in comfort. 

“I know,” he sighs and neither of them needs to say more than that. 

Porthos stays, he pays attention, he keeps his eyes on the dauphin, observing every moment. 

Later, when he visits Aramis’ grave, he tells him all about the party held for the dauphin. He knows that he could tell Aramis anywhere, that going to the grave is hardly productive – the body housed beneath the dirt is no longer Aramis’, loose-limbed and broken. He remembers Aramis once told him that God could hear their prayers anywhere – sacrilegious then but enough to make Porthos laugh in disbelief at Aramis’ brazenness – but it still seems enough that he should say it to the wooden cross now, his hand splaying out and pressing to it, as if a handshake. There are some dried flowers he’d draped there once before, months ago, that he should replace now. 

“He was happy,” he says and hopes it’s true – as happy as an infant still can be. 

This, at least, he thinks would make Aramis happy, too. He hopes so. 

God, does he hope so. 

 

-

 

The years pass, as they often do, and while the pain never goes away – it becomes less sharp and more dulled. He wonders if it will ever fade. Part of him doesn’t want it to. Part of him doesn’t want to forget the twist of his own heart when he thinks of Aramis – because it keeps Aramis alive and it keeps him near. 

He carries Aramis’ pistol. He does his best to care for it, thinks every time he cleans it that Aramis would likely hover behind his shoulder and scold him for his technique, if he had the chance. But he practices, trains, serves the pistol well – thinks every time he makes a shot that it’s Aramis rather than God guiding his hand. That, too, is sacrilegious – but he likes to think Aramis would laugh, and then go soft-eyed, if he were to tell him. 

He took his pauldron, too. But he never wore it. It’s tucked away in his quarters, protected. He wouldn’t let anyone take it. He carries Treville’s sword and Aramis’ pistol at his side. His family, always with him. 

With every passing year, the pain of missing Aramis doesn’t fade. He doesn’t expect it ever will, even if he’s resolved to live his life as much as he can – if not for Aramis’ sake, than for Porthos’ own. He knows, intimately, how desperate Aramis always was to protect him. 

He so rarely speaks with the queen, but he thinks she understands that much. He’ll never know her, of course. But there are times when she’s lost in thought, as he’s guarding her along with the other musketeers, that her mind seems to wander. But she is strong and Porthos thinks it’s only because he’s looking for it that he even sees it at all. 

He remembers the way Aramis smiled when speaking of her, in the moments he catches the queen’s mind elsewhere. He remembers that smile, soft and curving, breathless with it – the way he’d told Porthos that she’d needed him. 

Still, when he meets the queen’s eyes, few and far between though those moments may be, he thinks he sees that same spark of familiar sadness, that same spark of a deep longing. Their pain is their own but they, at least, know that they both miss the same man. The queen is intelligent, and Porthos doesn’t doubt that she can guess as to why his mind lingers, even years later. They never speak of it – they hardly speak together at all. But it is enough to know. 

There are moments, perhaps, when he is able to see past the queen and see the woman that Aramis would have fallen in love with. His anger evaporated that first day he ever learned of it, and years later, it’s only a dull ache of understanding. 

The one they love is gone. There should be solace in that, but misery is a solitary thing – and they both make the best of what they have. 

 

-

 

When Constance’s second child is born, a young son to accompany the daughter, d’Artagnan pulls Porthos aside and asks, “Would you allow me to name him Aramis?” 

Porthos blinks at him, stunned for a moment. But d’Artagnan is in utter earnestness, older now, laugh lines touching the corners of his eyes, his beard almost fully grown in and yet still looking patchy and too young. But d’Artagnan has the face of a man who will always be youthful. 

“Why are you asking me?” Porthos asks and hates how gruff his own voice sounds, graveled out and longing. 

“Constance thought you… well, someday you might want to name your own after him,” d’Artagnan admits, as if it is obvious. 

Porthos’ heart squeezes and he shakes his head, and even finds himself smiling. “You know him. He’d expect at least seven children named after him between all of us. He’d delight in it.”

“He would,” d’Artagnan laughs and politely ignores Porthos as he wipes away the sudden tears in his eyes. 

“You should,” Porthos says. “Please,” he adds when d’Artagnan looks as if he might protest, “I insist.” 

He doesn’t have the heart to tell d’Artagnan that he’ll likely never have children. He doesn’t have the heart to admit it, thinking that Aramis would be disappointed. Aramis would have loved any of Porthos’ children as fiercely as Porthos would have loved them. 

Aramis d’Artagnan looks a lot like his namesake – bright and wicked even at a young age, his hair wavy and unruly, his eyes dark and inquisitive. Porthos adores him, just as he does d’Artagnan’s daughter, Cécile. They love him in turn and call him Uncle Porthos, tugging on his cloak until he scoops them up into his arms and swings them. 

 

-

 

The dauphin is four and walking in the garden with his mother, Constance and the other ladies in waiting in tow. Athos is still at the garrison, as he usually haunts these days, but d’Artagnan and Porthos, along with some other musketeers – still green, still earning their commission – follow behind the women. In light of the tumultuous political climate, between both Spain and England, and even now still reeling from the turmoil brought on by Rochefort, it isn’t unlikely that the musketeers should follow the royal family even through the expansive gardens. The king’s paranoia has only grown over the years. 

Constance is beautiful, glowing in the way only a new mother can, and d’Artagnan beams at her whenever their eyes meet, although Constance does not leave her queen’s side so she might walk arm and arm with her husband. He hears d’Artagnan sigh a few times whenever the light hits Constance’s hair just right – and Porthos finds it sweet, hopes that d’Artagnan will always feel such love. 

The queen and her ladies stop to admire a particular patch of the gardens, but the dauphin grows restless, tugging on his mother’s clothes before darting away and ambling over to d’Artagnan and Porthos. 

“I want your sword,” he declares of d’Artagnan, he and Porthos still in the process of bowing to their future king. 

“Louis, you will do no such thing,” the queen scolds, turning to look at her son over her shoulder. 

The child pouts, but d’Artagnan kneels down – taken to fatherhood easily, speaking with the dauphin easily. Porthos stands, still halfway through bowing, and feels uncertain. He’s glad that, at least, d’Artagnan seems at ease – Porthos, for all he loves children, has always felt out of his depth with them, always let Aramis take the reigns should they ever encounter them. He was always best at comforting them, if they were crying. He remembers long nights in the court where he would soothe away Charon and Flea’s nightmares. When it comes to happy children, he’s left a bit stunned. Aramis used to always say he was wonderful with children, if perhaps too tentative – that he would make a wonderful father. 

Despite the queen’s scold, the dauphin continues to wheedle d’Artagnan, and he has no choice but to relent – and uses a stick to demonstrate some simplistic skills that his own father taught him so long ago. Porthos watches him, knows his expression has gone soft and pained. 

Constance touches his elbow and he glances at her. She smiles – and he knows that she understands. They’re both thinking of the same person. He looks at the queen and he knows she, too, is thinking of him – can see it in the softness of her smile as she watches the dauphin try to mimic a lunge before slipping and falling onto his knees, giggling. 

“Your husband is quite the teacher, Constance,” the queen says, and there is a tease to her voice, a quirk to her lips. 

“He’s showing off, Your Majesty,” Constance says, with a long-suffering kind of sigh that she doesn’t quite mean – and the two women exchange a look born from years of knowing one another. 

Constance tuts and strolls over to demonstrate the proper lunging technique, as befitting a lady married to a musketeer, and the dauphin basks in the attention, beaming at the praise and responsiveness he brings forth. 

Porthos stands there, silent, watching the dauphin. The ladies in waiting behind he queen are far enough away that Porthos doesn’t quite find himself surprised when the queen says, simply, as if it is simple: “If only his father were here to watch this.” 

“He’d have a thing to say about d’Artagnan’s form, I’m sure,” Porthos says and wonders how he manages to keep the wobble from his voice. He folds his hands in front of him, tucking his thumbs into his belt, to keep his hands from shaking. To anyone listening, they are speaking of the king. 

“Yes,” she agrees, quiet. Her eyes go soft. She pauses, lips pursuing, seems to debate her words before she carries on, saying, “Sometimes I wonder… if it would be too much. Perhaps it would be too painful.” 

This, Porthos knows, is not subtle. Anyone listening in would not mistake them speaking of the king. And yet Porthos aches to speak of him, to speak of him to her, someone who understands the true extent of pain and loss, that hollow ache of someone simply _missing_. 

“No,” he says, firmly. “I – Your Majesty. I know he wouldn’t have changed a thing.” 

The queen is silent for a moment and then says, “… Yes. I suppose I already knew that.” 

They stand in silence as Constance and d’Artagnan begin a mock swordfight with sticks, much to the dauphin’s delight and to the scandal of the ladies-in-waiting. 

“With every passing year,” the queen says, after a pause. “I wonder if – if it would have changed. If time would—”

“No,” Porthos interrupts, and then bows deeply in apology at the brazenness. The queen dismisses it with a small smile, seeming more amused than insulted, and Porthos continues, looking down at his feet, “I – I once knew a man.” He’s too aware of the women hovering too close, and he continues, “He was a good man. And he was in love with a woman. Deeply in love. Once he was in love, he was in love forever – that’s just how he was. Regardless of how old he was or became, he would love her just the same. With all his heart.” 

The queen looks at him, quiet, far more reserved than Porthos feels – feels like he’ll fall apart, but she is more designed for the suppression of her feelings, and it is both a gift and a curse. She sighs out and says, “… How wonderful that man must have been.” 

“He was,” Porthos agrees and his heart thuds hard in his chest and he’s crippled with his own _longing_ , suddenly, in that moment. Longing to just see his smile one last time, to hear his laugh, to hear his voice—

“Although… perhaps he didn’t love her with _all_ his heart,” she says, looks at him, “Perhaps there are others who might have shared that space, too.” 

Porthos’ throat feels dry and she has fallen easily into the polite distance of court language, but he feels like he’s drowning out of his depth. He manages a small nod, glancing at her, gauging for her reaction – but she gives none. He wonders just how much she knows, or has guessed. 

“I only mean,” he says, voice brittle, “she never has to doubt if he loved – loves her. Because he does and always will.” 

“Thank you,” the queen whispers, and looks back out at the dauphin as he claps along to Constance’s victory over her husband. “It is… a comforting thought, that a love can survive for so long, even through – ” and here, finally, her breath hitches for a moment before she reclaims her control, “through death.” 

“Yes,” Porthos says, then adds quickly, “Your Majesty.” 

 

-

 

The dauphin, merely six, asks for his father’s sword with a hidden kind of glee – asks to do battle. He is young, precocious, and childish like the man he calls father. As he should be. His grin is wide, toothy, childlike. 

The king, unwilling to bow down to his son’s skill, and more likely to claim victory himself, instead calls upon the musketeers. Porthos is called forward – towering, large, a worthy adversary. Porthos bows to his future king, feels the queen’s eyes on him. 

The ‘battle’, much as it is, is a short-lived one – Porthos already knowing he’ll throw the fight after he makes the dauphin work for that victory. But his mind is clouded, watching the smallest flourish of the dauphin’s wrist and thinking of how much Aramis would love this moment, how deeply Aramis would long to be in his position. He feels like a voyeur, a usurper – that he does not belong nor does he deserve this. 

Not for the first time, Porthos wishes there could be a means that he could exchange his life for Aramis’, so that he could be here in these moments. For all the horrors he’d imagined that would ultimately have him and Aramis would be separated, this was not a scenario he’d have expected. 

He loses himself to his thoughts and in that time, the dauphin lunges forward and catches his sword against Porthos’ thigh, a swift cut that stings and makes Porthos hiss. But the dauphin, still too young to understand, still untouched by war and torment and fighting, merely laughs in his glee of victory and gives Porthos no true concern. It’s just as well, the ache from the cut is nothing compared to the ache of watching Aramis’ son run victoriously towards his father, the king. 

 

-

 

The dauphin is eight when the first attempt on his life is made – and Porthos steps forward swiftly and catches a bolt in his arm for his troubles. The child cries, whisked away by other musketeers, his mother and father already under cover – although he thinks he hears the queen yelling for her son, fiercely protective even when bolts and gunfire whizz by. 

Afterwards, he sits in Athos’ captain’s quarters as Athos attempts to stitch up the wound. He hands Porthos a cup of whine and a heavy look. 

“What?” he asks. 

Athos’ face is grim and he says, “Nothing,” before stooping down to thread the needle through his skin. Porthos hisses loud and flinches, and Athos gives him a dry look, and continues, “You should be more careful.”

“I am,” Porthos hisses out through the pain. 

It is the first scar he’s gotten for Aramis’ son. It is the first scar in a long time that someone other than Aramis has stitched up. 

“Just be careful,” Athos repeats as he pulls the thread tight, stitching the skin back together. Porthos closes his eyes and tries to stay still, tries to memorize this pain – this touch memory of loyalty and love and devotion. He will protect Aramis’ son. 

Later that day, once his arm is bandaged up, he is summoned to the palace – where the queen greets him in thanks for his service. It rings too close to a time so many years ago, where he stood and watched Aramis and the queen exchange words, glances, touches. She is only formal with him, as to be expected, but the phantom of a lost time hangs between them. 

“You are loyal as always, Monsieur Porthos,” she says, and he knows that her smile is genuine, at least. “Thank you for your service to king and country, and to protecting the dauphin.” 

“I will _always_ protect your son,” Porthos says with such force that they are both taken by surprise – but he means every word. He swallows thickly and says, “I would do everything in my power to protect him – my life and all that I am.” 

She looks at him, visibly stunned – which means he’s truly shocked her, if she cannot school her expression – and for half a second her expression wobbles and she is far away from him, thinking of—

She smiles. “Someone I once knew said the same thing, once. His devotion was understandable, then. Yours… I believe I find it understandable, too.” 

He waffles, feels again that he does not belong, that he has no right to say these things. He bows deeply to cover his shame, to cover the burn of his own mourning – still, even now, so many years later, almost a decade without him – and his own insecurity in the ferocity of his devotion. It should not be him who receives these accolades. 

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he says, his voice thick and graveled out. 

“No, thank you,” she says, quiet, and her smile is fond. “I should be so lucky that the one I once knew has such loyal and true friends. And that my son might have such loyal guards, as well.” 

“… You have loyal and true friends, as well, Your Majesty,” Porthos says quietly down to his feet. 

The queen smiles and offers her hand, and Porthos lets her take his and press it gently. “You are a kind man, Porthos.” 

Porthos bows again because he does not know what to say. 

 

-

 

There are others, of course, that he comes to love. Those he holds dear, holds close, loves deeply and fully – but none of them are Aramis, and none of them ever will be. He never marries, never has children of his own – his life is devoted to the family he found so long ago, a musketeer loyal to his regiment. There are moments when the temptation rises, when there is a woman who might wish to marry him, who might smile at him and make him feel the depth of humanity and love. But he thinks then of losing his last connection to his brothers, to Aramis, and it stills his hand. 

He promised he’d protect him. He knows that isn’t a promise he’ll break. 

 

-

 

He eventually becomes too old to remain on active duty, his joints sore and swollen after so many difficult years, his mind sharp but his body softening with time. The queen grants him a permanent position in the court, protecting her and her son, and Athos turns over his position as Captain to d’Artagnan – who is a family man now, and thus cannot afford to be on the front lines at all times. Athos and Porthos find their places amongst the court. Porthos can’t help but think it is both mercy and torture that he should find himself here, when he knows how painfully Aramis must have longed for the same chance. It is fourteen years since his death and still he thinks of him – but now, at least, he finds himself smiling with the memories, laughing at what once was rather than crying for what couldn’t be. For the most part. 

The would-be king grows and comes to know Porthos, and it is a jab of pained guilt that leaves him breathless for the entire day when the dauphin turns to him and calls him by name – knows that he does not deserve the distinction, knows that he is taking this moment away from a man who only wanted it with all his heart. 

“Porthos,” he says, fourteen and knowing better than anyone else around him. “Shall my future queen like me, do you think?” 

Porthos blinks once, uncertain what the best way to respond to that is – the dauphin speaking, of course, of his engagement to the Spanish princess. But Athos steps in and says, “Your Highness would charm even the most uncertain of princesses.” 

The dauphin swells with pride at the thought and it’s with a pang that Porthos recognizes it as something inherently Aramis-like. He’s still reeling from the fact that the dauphin knows his name and feels him worth being spoken to. 

He has not earned it. 

Still, he falls in step with the young dauphin, and listens to him question the hunt and the intricacies of it, marriage and politics, so many things that Porthos knows little about. Porthos does his best to answer him, head bowed in respect, and ignores the hammering of his heart – that sick, dragging guilt that it should not be _him_ that the dauphin speaks to. 

 

-

 

The dauphin is fifteen when he finally sees it – the young prince close enough in age to resemble the face of a young man Porthos met decades ago now – younger, fairer than what he remembers, but still there. 

It is with something of a shock that Porthos realizes it – sees the fresh face of a young man who has never known pain. He never saw Aramis’ face in such a way – even before Savoy, heavy with the pain of a lost love and child. He has never known Aramis as truly carefree. But he can see it here, with the dauphin. 

His face is the queen’s, rounded but more masculine than his mother’s, this much is true.

But when he smiles one day, fifteen and fresh-faced, Porthos realizes with a pang that he’s watching Aramis’ smile. His coloring is all wrong, and there’s no denying whose mother he belongs to, but now that he knows to look it is all he sees. Aramis’ smile. The crinkle of Aramis’ eyes in laughter. The slight flourish at the end of a sword thrust when Porthos loses purposefully for the sake of the king’s pride. The wave of his hair – slight and rounded, differing from the tight curls of the king. The clouding of his expression when he finds a courtier beautiful. The way he fiddles, occasionally, with a piece of his hair or the cuffs of his sleeves, not quite nervous but unaware of his movements. Later, when he is older still, and he takes Porthos and other musketeers along for a hunt, his beard grows out for a day and there are prematurely grey hairs like constellations – Aramis’ beard. 

Aramis. 

 

-

 

Once he sees it, it’s all he sees. He can’t help it – it’s all he sees. What was once forgotten and uncertain bursts out inside of him, and the crush of his own affection for Aramis, even a decade and more since he last saw him, last heard his voice, first felt his touch, first held him down and kissed him – it reignites everything he’d forgotten, and it is like seeing Aramis all over again. 

Porthos almost cries right then, but no one notices. And if they did, it’d have easily been dismissed as the overwhelming devotion of an old man – and the dauphin celebrates his sixteenth birthday. 

 

-

 

The day the king dies and Queen Anne becomes the dauphin’s regent, the dauphin – now king – weeps bitterly in his room, refusing anyone to enter. Athos, now established as Minister of War in the late Treville’s place, looks at Porthos with a look of quiet contemplation as they stand in the grand hall, the queen in mourning and leaving her son to weep for a man who was his father in denial only. 

Porthos has no tears to cry, but it is merely because he exhausted so many sixteen years ago. 

But days later, when the king rises for his coronation, there are no tears in his eyes – he is strong and stable, and the cut of his jaw clenched in his concentration is endearingly Aramis-like. But strongly Louis’ own. 

He smiles brilliantly even if it does not reach his eyes, wearing furs and silks that Porthos can never hope to afford, the crown seeming effortless on his head. 

Porthos cries, as he often does in these moments, and hopes that Aramis forgives him for closing his eyes, unable to watch. 

 

-

 

He is still yet too young to lead the country, and so the queen steps in his place. With the king gone, however, she summons her loyal musketeers and dismisses her ladies-in-waiting, save for Constance.

She smiles, and there again is the pang of someone missing.

“We might speak freely now,” she says. 

 

-

 

She makes good on that wish, of course. Some days later, moving through the gardens, the queen grants permission to Constance to walk with her husband, unlooping her arm from around hers. She turns to Porthos and offers her hand. 

“Monsieur Porthos shall escort me,” she says, draped in black. He bows and takes her hand, delicately, and leads her along. 

They walk in silence, long enough that Porthos begins to wonder just what it is she hopes for. 

And then she looks at him, calmly, and asks, “Will you tell me how he became a musketeer? Will you tell me how you met him?”

He nods before she can even finish the request – and answers all the questions she’d burned to know for nearly two decades. He tells her how Aramis first became a musketeer, the story embellished since he only ever heard Aramis’ accounts. He does not tell her of Savoy, but he tells her how they first met – how Porthos had hated him at first, distrusted the smiles and the flattery. He tells her of their first mission together, of the first scar Aramis ever received protecting Porthos – as if he needed protection. He tells her of long missions through French countryside, how tiresome Aramis would find it. He tells her of his aptitude for shooting. He tells her everything and anything he can think of – hours and hours he speaks, telling her everything he can and answering each question she poses him about Aramis. 

He’s crying by the end of it – not heartbreaking sobs or anything that would disrupt his stories. But the tears fall steadily before he wipes them carefully away. It is not bitterness or regret he feels, but the deep longing of missing a piece of his heart. It is a kind of happiness that he might tell her now. He only wishes that she might have been able to learn of him on her own – and he finds it odd that he might have wished for such a thing, when she is the queen and he’d once told him to set his sights lower. Now he quietly thinks to himself that no one is worthy of Aramis, and knows that Aramis would say the exact opposite. 

“Thank you,” she says once there is nothing else to say, and when he looks at her he sees that her eyes are glassy as well. “I’m glad to have known him.”

“I am, too,” he says, and thinks of all the things he did not tell her – his destruction, his joy in violence and pain, the way he’d always cry out Porthos’ name when he rocked down against him, the thrill he got in his eyes whenever he hit his target. He smiles, and wipes at his tears one last time and repeats, “I am, too.” 

 

-

 

“You knew my father, Porthos,” the new king says one day and Porthos turns to him with a barely concealed start. He continues, “Tell me of him? Mother says so little.” 

Porthos continues to stare, before he remembers himself and bows. He realizes, of course, that he is speaking of the late king. 

“He once snuck out in order to see commoners, Your Majesty,” he says. “He was impressed by my fighting skills. He watched me in a tavern brawl.”

“Indeed!” the king remarks, and presses his lips together in thought. “I should have liked to see that.” 

Porthos laughs. “I’m too old for it now, Your Majesty. And Her Majesty would never allow it – both queen and mother.” 

The king looks over at where his bride walks with her mother-in-law, and he snorts – thoroughly undignified, but endearing all the same, and uniquely the king’s. 

“No, I suppose not,” he agrees and walks with Porthos. “I think you could still win in a fight, Porthos. You’re rather large.” 

“His Majesty is too kind,” Porthos says. He adds, thinking of all the times Aramis’ eyes would light up whenever watched Porthos toss someone easily over his shoulder: “Your father loved it whenever I won. He would say I wasn’t even trying.” 

“And were you?”

“I was just showing off,” Porthos admits, and his smile is secretive, meant for one person who no longer sees it. 

Porthos eyes are failing, and yet he still catches the glint in the bushes as they pass by through the gardens. Porthos turns a little. The assassin’s bolt is quick and sure, but Porthos is faster – he presses his hand to the king’s back and shoves, letting him sprawl out across the ground and taking the bolt to his shoulder. He gasps out, staggers, falls to his knee as the king makes a muffled shout of shock. Porthos is on his feet immediately and drawing his sword, though, stalking towards the bushes too quickly for the task to be reloaded. He cuts down the assassin before he can draw another breath. There is a flurry of activity behind him and he falls to one knee, satisfied that the royal guard should be swarming around the king and the royal family, protecting them from harm. 

Later, the king is furious, posting more guards and patrols around the castle. He looks after his wife and mother, then turns to Porthos, who has since gotten his shoulder wrapped up.

“You are absolutely not allowed to die,” he affirms, tense. “I forbid it.”

Porthos stares at him in quiet shock – uncomprehending that devotion. “Your Majesty—”

“You will be more careful from now on, Porthos,” he continues. “You may protect my life without sacrificing your own.” 

Porthos stares at him, unsure how he can breathe. He looks at him helplessly, then looks at Queen Anne over his shoulder. 

She takes pity on him, stepping in. “That is his job and duty, Louis. Porthos, just as any musketeer, would give his life in order to protect yours.” 

His face twists up – juvenile, but not long before he will be king in his own right, and the queen as regent will no longer be required. He has grown over the years – the loss of the king has left his face less carefree, but still soft with his age. He disagrees, disapproves, but he is too mature now to throw a tantrum (grossly unlike the old king, then). 

Still, Porthos cannot breathe – unsure how to process the fact that his life has somehow become worth knowing and mourning by Aramis’ son. 

Yet again he feels undeserving. 

“Your father,” Porthos begins, fumbling—

But the king interrupts, snapping out, “You do not know my father, Porthos. We are speaking of what I command of you.” 

Porthos stills, and it’s with a shock that it finally sinks in – how desperately he searches for Aramis in his son, how little he seeks out what makes the man unique. He bows deeply, mostly to hide his shame, mostly to hide the twist of pain across his face – the years ticking by, leaving him grasping. Aramis feels further and further away. 

 

-

 

Porthos frowns at himself in his own mirror. His hair is mostly silver now, and he smiles to himself to think of how grey Aramis would be now – and how much he would abhor it. 

He looks at himself in the mirror, doesn’t quite recognize the man he’s become but hopes that it is a worthwhile man – one that Aramis would be proud of, one whom Aramis would trust to protect his son and the woman he loves. There are laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, and at least the grim line of his mouth has faded with time, the unquenchable sadness in his eyes lessened over the years. 

He didn’t want to be sad forever. He’s never forgotten him – but at least he can smile. Aramis always did like his smile best of all. 

 

-

 

The queen, too, has aged well. Her face is calm and gentle, wise – and there is no denying the influence she holds over her son even with her regency legally ended. 

He walks with her in the garden – a common practice now. It is not uncommon that the queen should want an escort and guard, and thus after so many years, very few question it. Still, with each step, Porthos envisions that it would have been better had it been someone else who could walk beside the queen like this without question, without fear. Those days are long past now, and there is hardly anyone left in the court to remember to be suspicious of the queen’s favor towards the musketeers. 

“Have you ever considered retiring, Porthos?” the queen asks. “I doubt that any should question it, now.” 

On the queen’s other side, Constance glances at Porthos – and it’s clear she shares the same thought. 

Porthos bows his head a little but doesn’t speak right away, frowning down at his boots. It’s true that he never imagined he would live this long. He’d envisioned, long ago, dying in battle, on a battlefield, sprawled out beside his brothers until the very end. It’s true that since Aramis’ death, he has taken more precautions if only for the sake of the family Aramis left behind, so that he could give everything in order to protect them. 

He shakes his head. “My place is here, protecting my king. Your Majesty.” 

When he looks up again, he finds that it must have been the right thing to say, because both Anne and Constance smile at him softly. 

 

-

 

When the hunt goes terribly wrong, shots ringing out aimed for the king rather than the foxes, Porthos can’t consider himself terribly surprised. It is through his own insistence that he is even on this hunt at all – riding horses now makes his back spasm in protest even if he clamps it down. 

Still, when he hears the gunshots, his arm is immediately around the king and pulling him – guiding him along with other musketeers to get him to safety. The assassins are determined, shots ringing out and ricocheting, piercing through trees and slamming off of boulders. 

“Through there!” Porthos shouts, indicating the narrow archway between a crevice, a shortcut through the trees to where the horses are waiting. “Get him back to Paris.” 

They move as a unit, covering their king. One musketeer falls, a musket ball caught in his shoulder. He is young and green and Porthos hates to leave him behind like this and vows to come back for him, once he is sure of the king’s protection. 

The archway is a tight squeeze, but he gets the musketeers out in front of him and then the king, and follows behind them. As soon as he steps through, hears how quiet it is, he knows he has made the wrong choice in sending the king this way. 

He looks up in time to see the ropes being tugged, the assassins pressing rocks and boulders over the edges of the walls, and he muffles out a shout before he shoves the king to the ground and out of harm’s way. One of the heavier rocks catches him in the shoulder and he flinches, but he manages to catch the larger one before it can crush down on the king. 

The king – Aramis’ son – stares up at him in shock, his own words caught in his throat, paralyzed by his own fear and uncertainty. 

The boulder he holds up presses down against his back and he feels something inside him snap painfully. He doesn’t quite stumble, but he does fall to one knee.

“Sire,” he grits out, “ _Go._ ” 

It is the first time he’s ever commanded the boy – now a man – and he stares at him. Porthos’ arms shake with the effort of holding up the rocks, but the king does finally obey – scrambling out from beneath the wreckage towards the mouth of the cave. 

Porthos watches him – that frightened look in his wide eyes, the way his hair falls in his eyes, the way he holds back a shout of protest, the little prematurely white hairs in his beard. And Porthos closes his eyes tight and hopes that Aramis will forgive him for failing in the one practice he’d held on to for so long. He can only hope that someone worthy will guard Aramis’ son, with all his strength, with all his heart. This, at least, was worth a life’s service. 

The weight is too much and he falls down to his other knee, feels something snap into place for him. He clenches his eyes shut against the last sight of watching Aramis’ son get out to safety. He breathes out once. No more. 

He hopes Aramis can forgive him.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you can find me on [my tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/) for whatever reason.


End file.
